What follows is still no excuse for what happened next

Yesterday, I had two simple things to accomplish, besides teaching, which is never simple and rarely accomplished.  First, I had a routine OB/GYN appointment; then, I had to go interview the pediatrician.  I am not sure that is how he would describe the meeting, but that is how I saw it.

What should have been an easy jaunt to the OB/GYN turned into me running really late because of several unexpected (but delightful) visitors who stopped by my office.  Because I was late, I made a poor veggie turkey sandwich lunch choice that I would later regret.  Then, I drove to the doctors’ office on an absolutely empty tank because I didn’t need to worry about getting gas because the appointment was routine and because the gas station was right next door, and I had hours after the appointment to fill up the tank. And I never have to go anywhere, anyway.

During the appointment–mere seconds after the OB announced that Baby Boy wouldn’t arrive anytime in the next three weeks–I had the privilege of getting my cervix checked “to establish a baseline” so we could measure progress over the next three to four weeks.  I hear that this is rarely much of a party, but what happened next was terrifying.

My OB stopped speaking.

For a long time.  

I think she might not have started to speak again had I not shouted, “WHAT?”  And followed it up with another “WHAT?” and then some “Whatwhatwhatwhat?”

“You’re dilated to five centimeters and I can feel the baby’s head,” she said.

Me:  ”How exactly is that possible?”

Her: “Well, it happens sometimes, and you need to go to the hospital. Now.”

Me: “Do I have time to get gas?”

Her:  ”Well, I guess? Maybe?”

The trip to the hospital reminded me why I hate Californian drivers who allow no one–no one–to merge.  Ever.  Just getting out of the parking lot took a lifetime. 

I bought $11 worth of gas and made it to the hospital, where my friend S. met me in the parking lot. She might have had a bloody nose, but that is a story for another time.  S. kept me hopeful by, among other things, describing my swollen feet as not puffy but, instead, “the ankles of destiny.”

What followed was a frantic drive home from work for the spouse (whose fuel tank was also empty, despite, or because of, his newfound hyper-miling hobby). He collected our half-packed bags and made it to the hospital.  My parents made it to the airport.

And then we waited, and waited, and waited, until, after hours of monitoring the baby–who is strong and on his way to being a mover and a shaker, based on his activity–and checking me again, we got sent home to our friends/hosts with the mosts over at the Queso Dip and my parents decided to wait until the next day to fly out. 

This morning, we headed back to the hospital and, after conferring with a different OB, nurse practitioner, and nurse, we decided to go home and wait, hoping Baby Boy can hold on a few more days and make it to full term.  Added to the stress is the fact that my grandfather is quite ill.

But all of this is not an excuse for what happened next.  Joel dropped me off at home and immediately went to the gas station to fill up the car; a few minutes later, I heard the trusty rumble of a diesel in front of our house.  So trusty, in fact, that the dog stood by the front door wagging his tail, waiting for JD to arrive home.  I opened the door to a fed-ex delivery.  If only I’d been wearing pants. 

Dear Baby

The husband has started to talk to the baby.  He gives solid parental advice, words of encouragement, and discipline when necessary.  Here are some of my favorite exchanges so far.  He always starts out with “Dear Baby,” like he’s writing Baby Boy a letter.

A few weeks ago, when I mentioned I was exhausted by how fast the baby seemed to be growing, which resulted in my ribs expanding and general crankiness, the husband gave the following pep talk:

“Dear Baby, I haven’t met you yet, but I think I know you.  I think you are like your parents.  When you are good at something, you keep on doing it, but Baby, it is ok to get a C in growth.  You don’t have to get an A.  You can be average.  That’s ok.  Let your mom rest.”

The next morning, when I woke up resembling someone run over by a pack of Alsatians or just your average pregnant lady, he added this:

“Dear Baby, you have disobeyed.  You are grounded now.  No going out, no talking with friends, and no laptop for at least five months.”

Yesterday, as he left for work, the spouse told me, “You are my favorite thing.”  Then he paused and talked to the baby.  ”Dear Baby, your mother is my favorite thing.  You are also my favorite thing.  But your mother is my favorite thing.”  Then he looked at me and said, “I think it is important that he knows the difference.”

Today:  ”Dear Baby, don’t zig when you should zag.”

Have I mentioned that I can’t wait to raise a baby with this man?

 

Ring, Ring, Why Don’t You Give Lee A Call?

I always learn quite a bit from my students.  This fall quarter, I learned more than previous quarters–more, in fact, than I might have liked.  I learned how to not smack students (rhetorically or otherwise) who really deserved it.  I realized, for the 900th time, that teaching is 98% acting, facilitated by frequently telling yourself, “I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful, IfeelgoodIfeelgreatIfeelwonderful, baby-steppin’ it into the classroom, baby-stepping’ it into the classroom.”  But here are the best things I learned:

The Cherokee traveled by chariot on the Trail of Tears.

The Pink Panthers were a militant group from the 1960s.

Jacob Riis was one of the ‘founding fathers of flash photography.’

We’ve had more presidents than we realized and some of our actual presidents did more than they thought:  Henry Clay finally achieved his presidential dreams by winning an election, Hairy Truman ended World War II, Thomas Jefferson founded the Confederacy, and Richard Nixon enacted sweeping civil rights reform (or was that his plumbers?) and somehow didn’t illegally wiretap himself while doing so.

Reconstruction led to the Civil War (the South told you so, you just didn’t listen).

Sometimes, during the Civil War, Mary Chesnut listened in on her husband’s phone conversations.  She was also an abolitionist (wherever did she find the time between snooping on James’ convos and organizing those tea parties?).

Franklin Douglass wrote an important book about slavery.

And after a particularly ugly day in the classroom, I also learned I do have, on the whole, the best students ever, even if they think I should name the baby either Opechancanough or Tecumseh.

Next stop: world domination

Internets, at nearly 14 weeks pregnant, I either have a visible baby bump or the visible results of eating too many quesadillas at Taco Bell.  I also feel like I am rounding the corner from wishing I was in a hole somewhere, away from everyone in general to students in particular, to feeling practically human again.  This ebullience caused me to apologize to my mother for being a cranky, edgy, emotional pain for the last few weeks (we’re going to pretend this is the only time in my life I’ve behaved poorly).  Her response?  ”Oh honey, don’t worry at all.  We’re just so excited about having a grandchild that it doesn’t matter how you act.”

News I could have used a decade or so ago is all I’m saying.

My fast food walk of shame

Before actually getting pregnant, I had lofty ideals regarding how I would eat.  I would, once and for all, abandon preservatives and artificial sweeteners; I would eat fresh fruits and vegetables for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; I would send refined carbs packing; I would juice things; I would turn kale into smoothies that I would actually drink.  I would be a gracefully stoic pregnant lady, unconcerned about physical misery if it meant sacrificing for the next generation (so long as this next generation inherited his or her father’s musical talent and not mine, which is not talent or even hard work that pays off, but is instead torture for its audience).  

Then I got pregnant.  So far, I can divide the first twelve weeks of pregnancy into four or so stages.

Stage One:  Ginger Ale, saltines, and weeping.

Stage Two:  Saltines, breakfast macaroni and cheese, lunch macaroni and cheese, and dinner macaroni and cheese.  Intermittent weeping and intolerance for petty student complaints.

Stage Three:  Fast food hell and veggie sausage patties.  Three trips to Taco Bell, a place I frequent maybe once a year, in less than a week.  As I pulled into the drive through on the first trip, I thought to myself, “How could I have forgotten about the CHALUPA?”  And when I asked the nice guy taking my order what the “Supreme” topping was and he said “sour cream,” I said, “YES!”  By Tuesday, I’d transitioned to the seven-layer burrito, with all seven layers for the first time since high school.  Also on Tuesday, I left the husband out in the cold because I could not wait for him to come home for dinner before I, hobbit-like, ate first dinner.  When he did come home, I reminisced about the glories of Taco Bell (a place he hates) and announced “I love sour cream” while sipping my drink.  This caused him to believe I was drinking sour cream straight out of a glass.  I wish he’d been more worried.  Minimal crying: no spare time between plotting trips to Taco Bell and Foster’s Freeze.

Stage Four:  Nothing sounds good, not my mac and cheese, not my Taco Bell, not any of those pastries I so loved before getting pregnant, not mochas in the red Christmas cup from Starbucks, not a damn thing.  The chocolate shake from Foster’s Freeze did work some magic, but it took me an hour of hard thinking to decide between it and mashed potatoes.  In that hour of food strategery, I did come up with one thing I could eat:  my grandfather’s grits, made with horrendous amounts of cheese, Paula Deen portions of butter, and bordering on the heavenly.  This conclusion–combined with the realization that I cannot have my grandfather’s grits and that he will not meet and horribly spoil our baby–led me back around to the crying.  

Good news!

Our three post-graduate degrees have completely prepared us to be parents.  Grad school is, after all, where I cultivated my taste in music.  And this proves I too can calm a baby.

I might have cried about a wagon

Earlier this year the Great Road Bike debate raged in our household.  I don’t mean we raged at each other, but the debate itself went from Bianchi to Trek to Specialized to Bianchi to Giant to carbon-fiber frame to carbon-fiber fork on an aluminum frame to no one caring anymore because I’m pregnant so no road bike for me.  A blessed relief is what I call that.

Or what I called that until the Great Wagon Debate of 2011 replaced it.  And I don’t mean a wagon that a toddler pulls across our suddenly small back patio.  I mean the sort that you drive, the sort that confirms your pseudo-yuppie street cred without fully admitting that you are a resident of the Bay Area and you need the sort of vehicle you can drive to a protest without being protested yourself.  One that has enough room to slap a KQED sticker on the back window.  That sort of swagger wagon.  The kind that you can out-liberal the liberals with by using biodiesel instead of just plain diesel.

There have been a few notable glitches in the Great Wagon Search so far.  First, I have two tendencies within me.  One, inherited from my father, is what I believe he calls the cheap Dutchman (he is Dutch, so he can call himself this).  I want a deal, and deals are to be found in used cars (sometimes) or good financing (sometimes).  The last time I got a car, I nearly shouted “no” to all the add-on options.  But first I said, “How much?”  As in, how much is that sunroof?  And then, I DON’T THINK SO.   How much are those floor mats?  I DON’T THINK SO.  The other tendency is embarrassingly shallow.  I like bold jewelry and high-end cars.  I live in a valley surrounded by Bentleys, Aston Martins, Maseratis, Ferraris, Audi R8s, and the too-infrequent GTR (my idea of a family car).  I can identify them.  The poor man’s car here is the 3-series BMW.  If it is red, too expensive, and prone to being driven by folks who make quintuple what I make and have the plastic surgery to prove it, then I probably want to own it.  This second category does not come as a deal.  It comes under the category “requires premium gasoline;” or “costs $65,000 and the price of your soul over the course of its lifetime;” or “you can go ahead and buy that car, but then your friends will know how shallow you really are and judge you accordingly.”

This debate all started because we bought a dog; then we bought a house for the dog (a patio! a river walk! all for the high-energy lab!); and now, in our quest to make him the most expensive dog ever (dog day care! dog day camp! three crates and counting! one couch eaten! zillions of humiliating trips to the vet!), we’re purchasing a wagon so he can’t sit next to the baby and swap drool, but can have his very own safe space in the very back.  Don’t tell him.  The cat doesn’t travel, so no one cares where she rides in this hypothetical wagon.

You’d think it would be simple.  Have the husband use his organizational and spread-sheet genius to simply research, categorize, compare and contrast wagons and then, like magic, go out and buy one.  Except I am unreasonably emotional about this.  And those two tendencies move me across a used car lot like a crazy person, veering from the $6000 2001 Passat Wagon (we could buy it right now!) to the 2007 Limited Edition Toyota 4Runner (a V8 and red!) to the 2009 Passat to the Volvo V50 (no longer made in the US, but wouldn’t you just know that the nice dealer has one with a sports package being shipped in from Europe as we speak?) to the Volvo V70 to the Volvo XC70.  In notable restraint, I gave up on my Audi A4 Avant dream, and our collective BMW 328 wagon dream just got flushed down the toilet by cargo space that resembles the size of our master bathroom, which is to say is not cargo space at all.

I finally said to the husband, “I suppose the Jetta Sportwagen TDI matches our ethics.”  And he said, “I wish I could replay your tone of voice, because you sound so annoyed by our ethics.”  But then he added, “Our only lifeline away from Volkswagen seems to be a Volvo.”  Can you tell we already own one Volkswagen?

So round and round we go.  Try to act surprised when we embrace our status as young rural professionals (yurpies), buy the all-too-predictable Volvo (an academic in a Volvo? No way!), and immediately slap a KQED sticker on it, despite my cheap refusal to actually donate to public radio, if only because I hope either Alec Baldwin or Ira Glass will personally call me up to goad me into doing what I know I ought to do.